De Rerum Natura
by Greyn'Cold
Summary: "A man's true delight is to do the things he was made for." - Marcus Aurelius. A Raymond 'Red' Reddington Story. Prequel; Red, Dembe, OC, and all the others before S1, with no romantic pairings. See Author's Note for more info.
1. Chapter 1

**De Rerum Natura**

A/N: This story will be a prequel to the series but will have spoilers from the Seasons so far. I wanted to explore the backstory of Red before he turned himself into the FBI. This will eventually lead into the series, but it's not the main purpose of the story. And also, this is solely for entertainment purposes. I'm not trying to answer the big questions.

Rating: T...if you're old enough to watch the show you're old enough to read this.

Warnings: Violence, murder, mayhem, some foul lauguage, drinking, smoking, adult situations and relations, and overall mature themes.

Disclaimer: I own only the characters I have created.

Spoilers: Seasons 1 and 2, and maybe 3 if I'm still writing this when the new season starts.

Summary: "A man's true delight is to do the things he was made for." - Marcus Aurelius.

* * *

2005

 _The wind howled through the trees, stinging his face and slicing through the coat he'd tucked tight around his body. His legs had gone numb miles ago. Each step felt like he was walking through water; it was a struggle to get that one more step. That one more foot closer to home. It was dark; there were no lights, no signs of life. There was only the howl and one more step. Snow was falling hard and fast, covering his trail and making it nearly impossible to see his way in front. If it hadn't been for the clearing to give the road passage he would've been lost. But he knew that path well. It led home._

 _Home. He hadn't been home in months. It was going to be a surprise. A Christmas Eve miracle with presents but most of all: Dad. He could hear their voices in his head; the estatic excitement, the yelps of joy as they jumped to their feet to greet him. He could feel his daughter's arms around his neck and the touch of her lips to his cheek. The kiss of his wife's lips upon his._

 _Just one more step and he'd be home. Then one more after the last. Out of the dark came a solid post that had him stumbling to the right to avoid colliding with it. He looked up and huffed out a breath of air into the wind. Without seeing the words he knew what it was. It was a sign that indicated that the acres of land around his home had been bought. In five to ten years the trees would be gone and replaced by more houses. The saunciary he had called home would be gone and instead he'd have to deal with neighbors. Sighing he turned from the sign and took another step._

 _Just as he lost feeling in his feet, he rounded a corner and saw in the distance the opening to the front yard. If he could've gotten his legs to run he would've made a mad dash for the front door. All he could manage was a heavy lift of his right leg out of the deepening snow before tugging his other leg along. As he approached the porch, he tugged off the gloves to dig his keys out of his pants pocket. With trembling hands he dropped the keys into the snow. He bent over and pulled them out of the cold wet snow before dragging himself up the steps. Letting out a deep breath in relief, he went to the door and noticed for the first time that there were no lights on._

 _Maybe they were all asleep, he thought as he unlocked the door and swung it open. The house was warm and in the air he smelt something that shocked him in place just inside the door. It wasn't of baking goods, or of a burning fire in the fireplace, or of his wife's perfume. It was of blood. A lot of blood._

 _Flicking the light on, he felt the hitch in his chest as the splattering of red nearly blinded him._

 _"Raymond."_

 _Taking a deep steady breath, he forced his eyes open and blinked away the memory of that night. The chaos in the small tattered shack in the middle of the desert flooded back into his ears. Men with semi-automatics, grenades, and all the bravo of frustrated men pushed to the brink with nothing to lose moved frantically yet orderly around him. Standing in front of him, shoulders square and determination in his eyes, was Dembe._

 _"No." That word escaped his lips faster than he had time to consider anything other than absolute death for his friend before his shoulders slumped. He knew that no matter how hard he protested nothing would change the man's mind. "I've cared for you since you were fourteen-"_

 _"And I am a man now." Dembe approached him while reaching out to grip both his shoulders. "Raymond, my brother, I know this is difficult. I am forever in your gratitude, but I must go."_

 _Looking away, out the window, he did not see the scene outside but a distant memory of volunteering his life for servitude to country. The fear yet courage he felt when he first took that pleadge to God and country. Now, he was a man with no country and his only alligence has been to the people who swore alligence, their loyalty, to him. Dembe was more than his employee and his friend; he was his family. In that moment he understood what every parent felt as their child went off to war._

 _Pride mixed with hopeless despair filled his gut and it took all the restraint he had to simply nod as he was pulled into a tightly firece hug. Irrationality played at his mind as he thought of sedating Dembe and having him carried back to the jeep and then out of the country. Anywhere but here and now. Shaking that out of his head, the embrace ended as Dembe stepped away while picking up an AK-47 while he did so._

 _Givng him one last look, Dembe told him, "_ _Maʿ al-salāmah."_

 _After swallowing the hard lump in his throat he responded with a rough breath of air, "Fī amān Allāh."_

 _Dembe gave him a warm smile, one he knew he'd miss for however long the man was gone, before turning to leave the shack._

 _He watched out the open door as Dembe ran to the awaiting jeep, jumped in the back, and was soon gone into the desert horizon._

A jolt in his back jerked him awake as he blinked into darkness and coughed into the smoldering heat. The floor under him tilted again, sending him slamming his shoulder into the wall. A groan rumbled out of his dry mouth. It felt like they were hitting turbulance but he knew he wasn't on a plane. The terrian had shifted from smooth to rocky which had sent him rolling from where he'd been sleeping hunched in the corner and into the side of the vehicle.

Shaking his head, he tried to shake the fogginess away as he rolled away from the wall before being thrown forward from a sudden acleration upward. He tumbled over his own body, arms, and trapped hands then slammed into the side again. A muffled scream of pain escaped his throat as the side of his head hit the solid metal of the truck.

He nearly blacked out but fought against the darkness that threatened to engulfed his head. He was struggling to stay focused, to determine how long it's been, how the road twisted and turned, but he was losing his sense of consciousness fast. Moaning once more into the gag over his mouth he gave into the darkness as he slumped into the dirty, hot, metal floor.

There was a voice through the static in his ears as the darkness lifted. A bright light caused him to clench his eyes shut with a grimace as the pain in his head shattered his skull. The voice was getting louder as he felt a slap sting his face. Groaning against the pain, he didn't flinch with the next blow but he did will his eyes open. The light that had blinded him was from the sun high in the sky above him. Standing all around him was a squadron of men with AK-47's, blank stares, and they were all wearing camaflouge.

In front of him, and pointing a beretta 9 mil. at his head, was the leader of the brigade. He knew the man by reputation only and he looked ever as imposing as the picture he'd seen. Aubrey Annan looked like he'd trained with Evander Holyfield, and then ate him for dinner. He was a beastly man with beady blue eyes that starkingly contrasted with his nearly black complextion, and he swore that the man had the biggest hands he'd ever seen; they practically looked fake.

Clearing his throat, he said in a dry whisper, "Good morning to you too, Aubrey. Pleasent weather we're having. I see you've taken procautions against the sun," he indicated as he jerked his chin up toward the hat on Aubrey's head. "I thought I'd experienced the worst of the desert heat when I was in Kuwiat, but this..." his voice cracked from the dryness of his mouth. The taste of thick saliva nearly made him gag as he doubled over in a coughing fit. He was severely dehydrated.

Aubrey stepped closer with the gun inching closer to his forehead. "You will address me as General Annan."

He couldn't even form enough saliva to spit out or swallow. The barrel of the gun bit into his flesh but instead of cringing, he stared up into Aubrey's eyes and he ignored the man's request. Instead, he said, "That's an interesting first name you have...Aubrey. Your mother's influence?" The man's jaw tightened as the gun pressed harder into his forehead. Not taking his eyes off his, he continued, saying, "It's only that I know she's of French descent and would be the one to want to name her son that...It means "Fair ruler of the little people"." He started to laugh as he stared up at the man that blocked out the sun, shadowing him in his shadow, and shook his head. "Oh, the irony. You're neither fair nor little..."

Aubrey snapped as he drew the gun back and clocked him in the head with the butt of it.

The world blurred in his vision as the water in his eyes swelled from the pain. Yet, still, he didn't fall completely over. Righting himself he felt a flow of something wet running slowing down his temple and cheek. It had to be blood. He sat back on his legs and tried to speak around the cotton in his mouth. "Come now, I thought we could talk this over like civil men."

"You thought wrong," Aubrey told him with the gun trained back on his head.

"Pity. I really didn't want to have to sever our... _association_ so soon."

"You sold to the rebels-"

"I told you from the start that you weren't the only one I had arraingments with."

"My interests-"

"Are mine. But it's not a fair fight if I sell you all the weapons."

Aubrey started laughing at that, having found it funny. "You talk fair. What do you Americans know about fair?"

He had to nodded as he told him, "I agree, it is subjective given which side you're on."

"And which side are you on, Red?"

"The side that wins. If you want that side to be yours, then cut me loose."

Aubrey seemed to give that some thought before laughing again. "Just so you can supply both sides, get all the money, and then cozy up with the victors?" Aubrey gestured to one of his men to come closer. They exchanged a few words that he couldn't hear before the other man walked behind him and picked him up until he was wobbling on two feet. He holstered his gun and said to him with a wide smile, "Take him to the hole."

He was pushed in the back and was lead, and followed, to something that resembled a snakepit. Instead of snakes there were people being held prisoner at the bottom of a twelve foot deep by thirty foot wide hole. A wooden ladder lead down but they didn't give him time or the opportunity to use it because as soon as the barbwire wrapped gate was lifted from the hole he was pushed forward.

A couple of prisoners broke his fall as they all smashed against each other to the ground with grunts and groans and shouting and more pushing until he was clear of the men and leaning against the side of the dirt wall as the gate was closed above him. They didn't take the binds off his hands before pushing him in, but now it was easy as he used his teeth to undo them.

As he stretched and pulled at the rope, a pair of hands landed on his to help. He sighed at the touch and looked up into the brown eyes he'd been seeking out for months. At the sight of him alive and relatively well before him, he smiled. "Dembe."

"Raymond," Dembe said as he got his hands free of the ropes that bound them. "What are you doing here?"

"Feeling relieved, and dying of thirst, but most of all relieved," he said as couldn't help but pull the man into a hug that was warm and, better yet, welcomed. "I heard you were taken captive and I couldn't-"

"I did not mean to worry you," Dembe spoke into his ear before saying, "Thank you."

Taking a short step back and looking the man over, he said, "We're going to get out of this, don't worry."

Dembe took him in with a smile then laugh. "Now that you are here my worries are over. What's the plan?"

"Simple...To get up the ladder," he said right before an explosion sent everyone but him to the ground. He'd been the only one expecting it.

Through the smoke and fire that raged over the earth above him he spotted a figure opening the gate and pointing a AK-47 directly down into the hole. For a split second he thought this was it, it was all over, until he heard the eruption of gunfire and the man fell on top of them. Pulling the weapon out of the dead man's hands, he handed it to Dembe before heading up the ladder.

"Where's Aubrey?" he spoke to the man who'd saved his life and handed him a canteen filled with water. He knew Dembe would protest if he didn't take a few drinks for himself before passing it over so he wetted his mouth then gave it to Dembe.

The man then handed him a gun and pointed to one of the buildings on the compound. "General Annan barricaded himself in there."

As Dembe got the rest of the captured freedom fighters out of the hole, he headed toward the building.

"Raymond! Raymond!"

Ignoring Dembe's call to him, he aimed at a frantic guard outside the building who was trying to get in. Two shots took him down. As he passed the bleeding dead man he unhooked a grenade off his belt and pulled the pin as he rounded the corner to the building. He used the butt of his gun to break the first window he approached and threw in the grenade before covering his ears as he kept walking to the back.

He felt the walls shake as the explosion ignited a fireball that blew out the window in front of him. Shreds of glass stung his face as he closed his eyes and threw his arm up to protect his face from the flying glass and flames. The fireball was sucked back into the burning building and he kept going. Lifting his gun, he rounded the back corner of the buildng just as the door burst open and Aubrey Annan stumbled out. His back and legs were on fire and he hit the ground and started to roll as his screams of pain pierced his ears.

As he stared down at the agony on the man's face, he couldn't help but remember his own agnoy. The searing pain, nerveendings tingling and pulsing through his entire body, and the pure hell of any pressure, any amount of touch, against the burning flesh. The smell nearly sent him to his knees as he leveled the gun at the man's head; instead of feeling hate or any type of pleasure in killing the man, he felt remorse. He felt empathy as he put him out of his misery with a single shot to the head.

No words were said because nothing needed to be said. In that moment, Aubrey knew he'd picked the wrong side.

Lowering the gun, Red looked around at the carnage in the wake of the attack on the compound and knew that it would all soon be over. The South Sudan freedom fighters now had a chance at winning this war. They would get their victory and independence. And he knew in his heart that Dembe would lead them to it.

And then...He took a breath and stepped away from Aubrey Annan's dead body.

Then it will begin.

* * *

 _1996_

 _Nine years earlier_

The boy had yet to leave the corner he huddled himself in the night before. He had reassured him that no harm would ever come to him again but that did little to ease the boy's fears. There was no trust left to believe, no hope to feel, and no future to dream. Not yet anyway. Red knew that having lasted years in that hell of a life that there had to be some fight left in the boy. He wasn't speaking of the anger, even though the anger was good, but of a real spiritual fight. A fight to believe in something good again. A life.

Having done all he could for the boy medically, having patched up the broken skin and wrapped the smoldered blisters from burns, he made sure he rotated out the bandages along with the plates of uneaten food. It was in protest, he knew, but he also knew that if the boy didn't eat he would wither away and die.

Taking a drink of the scotch from the glass in his hands, he wondered again at his decision. It hadn't been one he'd thought out and planned, but instinct. At seeing that boy in that hell of a basement, seeing the burns, the brand on his shoulder, and the anger and fear in his half dead eyes. something inside of him just knew. He had to take him. There was no other thought in his head, no other way his body could move except for forward in the dark and musty room. He had unlocked the chains, untied the binds, and lifted him in his arms and took him.

He didn't speak a single word to anyone. Newton hadn't even questioned him as he opened the door to the car for the both of them and drove them to the landing strip. That had been nearly a week ago. So far the only useful thing he'd learnt about the boy was that he understood English. They had yet to have a spoken conversation; the boy had been answering his questions with either a shake of his head or a brief nod. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Finishing the scotch, he stepped away from the window he'd been standing in front of, the view of the Eifel Tower in the distance, and walked over to the food service cart that Newton had wheeled in. He took one of the plates over to the table and switched out the dinner with the breakfast and tossed the uneated food away.

"I assure you the only thing I'm trying to gain from feeding you is your life," he told the boy once more before picking up a strawberry from the fresh fruit bowl and eating it. "I like your spirit. You don't want to give in. You think that now that I saved you, and am feeding you, that you owe me. You did not ask for what happened to you...nor did I ask to find you. You owe me nothing," he told him as he stared down at him and shook his head. "The only one you owe is yourself...but, generally speaking, I prefer that you live." He went to walk away when he heard a soft yet deep voice.

"Why?"

Stopping mid-step, he turned and looked at the anticipant brown eyes that stared back at him from the frail, thin body of the teenage boy. Sighing, he simply asked, "Why not?"

The boy's hands were clenching the fabric of the pants he wore. His jaw set and he stared straight at the floor but the anger he saw was hard to miss. The boy was furious. "Look! See the damage that is me."

Shaking his head, he told him, "Damaged, maybe, but not dead. We're all damaged. It's what you do with that damage that counts. It's what seperates the survivors from the victims. And I believe that if you still have a breath in your body there is no reason not to continue going on, and to live. Otherwise...what's the point in fighting? If you don't want to use all that anger you feel right now to survive, then stop pretending to be a survivor."

The boy's anger grew as he shook his head and a fist hit the wall behind him. "Why care?! You want to hurt me!"

He almost laughed at that. "If I wanted to hurt you, kid, I would have left you to die chained to that standpost." Despite the anger and that yelling coming from the boy, he was happy. They were finally talking. Gesturing around the vast hotel room, he told the boy, "Take a good long hard look around you. I'm giving you a choice, probably the first real decision you've ever had to make in your life. It's a simple decision. Do you want to live or do you want to die? If you choose life," he pulled the chair out from the table and slapped the back of it, saying, "eat up. If not," he reached around his back and pulled out his gun; he released the magazine but left the one bullet in the chamber and placed it on the windowsill next to the boy. "One shot to your head is all you need."

The boy sat there on the floor as he turned and walked over to the couch and sat back down. Taking the remote in hand, he flipped through the channels until a show stopped him. It was in black-and-white and immediately had him laughing like a kid again.

"Oh, I can never tire of the Stooges," he chuckled. "When I was a kid I would wake up at four in the morning and sneak down to the living room so I could watch them before having to get ready for school. My mother would get so mad at me...She never did understand my sense of humor."

Moments later, as he was laughing at the sight of Moe slapping Curly, he heard movement. Glancing over his shoulder he watched as the boy got up from the floor and walked over to the table. He sat down, stared at the plate and then with a resigned breath, began to eat. Smiling slightly, he went back to watching the old TV show.

During a commercial break, he muted the TV and asked, "How long?"

It took awhile for the boy to answer but he knew he had to be patient. And he had all the patience in the world. "The year, I do not know. Was only a boy when I was taken."

He surmissed in his head that the boy looked to be around thirteen or fourteen. Seven or eight, maybe even nine years, he thought in disgust before shaking his head. "I'm sorry." After a long moment he asked, "What's your name?" He knew once he got the kid's name he would be able to figure out what happened. Trace the history and find if the boy had any family or relatives.

This time his answer took longer to answer. "People do not care to know my name."

"I care," he told him as he got up off the couch and approached him. He hadn't introduced himself yet; it's been too hectic and they weren't exactly on speaking terms. Now that they were, it wouldn't be right if he didn't properly introduce himself. "I'm Raymond Reddington." He stuck out his hand so the boy could shake it.

The boy stared at his hand for a long moment before hesitantly reaching out. With a meek voice and shake, he told him, "Dembe Zuma."

As they shook hands he told him, "Pleasure to meet you, Dembe."

He sat across from Dembe and poured himself a cup of coffee. Checking his watch he saw it was five-fifteen in the morning. He'd been up since a little before four because he had a call to make to Soto in Japan and he had yet to have coffee or eat anything himself. The scotch was the only thing he'd wanted that early.

"Who are you?" Dembe asked, breaking him from his thoughts.

He took a sip of coffee as he leaned back in the chair and gave that some consideration. "That's a tough question to answer."

"You do not know?"

Smiling a little, he said, "The question isn't who I am or even who you are. It's who do we want to be."

Looking at the table and shaking his head, Dembe asked, "Who I want to be?"

"You want to hear a story, Dembe?"

Dembe gave a short nod as he went back to eating, finishing the plate.

"It's by William Stafford called 'A Story That Could Be True'." He smiled as he recalled one of his favorite poems as he looked across the room at the far wall. "If you were exchanged in the cradle, and your real mother died without ever telling the story, then no one knows your name. And somewhere in the world your father is lost and needs you, but you are far away. He can never find how true you are...how ready. When the great wind comes, and the robberies of the rain...you stand on the corner shivering. The people who go by...you wonder at their calm." His eyes left the wall as he looked at Dembe and finished the poem, "They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind..."Who are you really, wanderer?" And the answer you have to give, no matter how dark and cold the world around you is..."Maybe I'm a king.""

Dembe's eyes were wide staring at his and there was a small smile on his lips.

"You liked that story?" When Dembe gave him a nod, he said, "There are plenty more stories where that one came from. Do you know how to read?"

His eyes shifted downward at the table in near shame as he shook his head.

"Well, see there, that's something that has to change. There is no shame in not knowing. There's only shame in knowing yet not doing. You want to learn?"

Looking up with a hint of a smile, he gave a nod.

Smiling wide, he said, "Good; it'll give us something to look forward to."

The boy finally seemed relaxed enough to breathe a little easier, which had him strangely, yet amazingly, excited. He had no idea what would happen when he had decided to take Dembe, but this was turning out to be an interesting endeaver. One he was glad he'd taken.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's following and favoring this story. And to RedHotLover for the review. It's genuinely appreciated. I apologize for the long delay in updating; I will try to update as quickly as possible but no guarantees. Also, not going to lie, writing for this show, especially for Red, is hard.

* * *

Ch.2

 _2005_

 _London, UK_

The rain was coming down light but steady. An early morning fog enveloped the streets as he pulled the brim of his hat down lower and flipped up the collar of his jacket. Street lamps and porch lights did nothing to guide the way down the narrow sidewalks and around the tightly knit brick buildings. It'd been awhile since he'd been there but he was able to remember the house as clearly as if he'd lived there himself.

He even knew where the spare key was hidden behind a loose brick in the porch wall. At half pass one in the morning the interior of the house was dark but not silent. There was the faint sound of music drifting softly in the air. Having been there many times before, he didn't need a light to maneuver through the rooms. The office was on the other side of the house. The smell of the place was one of old books and coffee, cigar smoke and cognac. There were no plants or flowers, no homely scents or feels. This was a workaholics home. There was no need for unnecessary items like plants that would just wither and die.

Stepping into the kitchen, the music became louder and he recognized the song that was playing. It was 'Time' by Tom Waits from the album _Rain Dogs._ He could see light coming from under the door to the office, illuminating the tile floor in front of it. He took off his hat and hung it on the doorknob. After tapping on the door twice, he opened it.

Liam was slumped back in the chair, Brandy Snifter in hand, and a file open on the desk. He jerked his head up when the door opened. After a moment of surprise, he smiled and stood. "Well, well, what a pleasant suprise. If it isn't the ol' _rain dog_ himself," he said referring to not only the song now playing but album title as he extended a hand. "How the hell are you, Ray?"

As they shook hands, he couldn't help but think that in all the years they've known each other it seemed that Liam Michael Neville hadn't aged a day. With salt-and-peppered hair that was cut short, high cheekbones, and sharp blue eyes, the man was still as opposing yet inconspicous as a spy should be.

Liam let go of his hand and looked to the door. "Where's Dembe?"

"The South Sudan, fighting for freedom," he stated as he took off his wet jacket and slung it over the back of the chair.

Liam was smiling as he sat back down. "Good for him."

Once seated, he told him, "I saw the press conference."

Liam narrowed his eyes at him, confusion and suspicion clouding his blue eyes. "You came all the way to London because of a press conference?" He reached over and turned off the player, cutting the music off.

"I was curious." When he only received a look from Liam in return, he said, "And there's a production of _Il turco in Italia_ at the Royal Opera House, it's first...am I right?"

"Yes. How'd you get an invitation?" he asked as he opened the top right desk drawer. Taking out two cigars and passing one over.

Red only smiled as he took it while saying, "Your wife."

Most men would have gotten offended or angered, Liam laughed. He continued chuckling as he pulled out a lighter and lit his cigar before leaning over the desk to light his. "She always liked you more than I, my friend. I couldn't manage to wangle an invite to our twenty year anniversary dinner."

He laughed as he blew out the smoke, saying, "That's because she spent it with me. Took her on a boat ride down the River Thames to Adventure Island."

"Adventure Island? You don't say."

"She has a fondness for Ferris Wheels," he deadpanned before sticking the cigar in his mouth. He hadn't heard Liam laugh so hard in years.

"If I didn't know my wife any better, Ray, I'd think you were actually telling the truth. She's terrified of heights." He reached over picked up a liquor bottle as he asked, "Cognac?" After getting a nod in response, Liam reached behind him to grab him a Brandy Snifter then filled it three fingers worth before passing it over before refilling his own glass.

"The bombing outside the Embassy," he got down to business as he took a sip of the brandy. "Horrible, all those people..." He sipped slowly at the drink as he studied the MI6 agent and enjoyed the way it eased his racing mind. "Then there's the issue with the press conference. They said there was a leak. In other words, a possible mole in the agency." He tilted his head as he regarded a man he'd been privileged to call friend for nearly thirties years now. "I want the truth. And I want to hear it from you."

Liam looked to the file on his desk as he absently tapped it with the fingers that held the cigar. After taking a sip of the brandy, he told him, "What's really going on is someone screwed up. Upon screw-ups, scapegoats are needed. I am the senior case agent, so...all fingers point to me." He rubbed at his face and leaned back into chair while taking puffs off the cigar. A few moments later, after he downed the cognac, he told him, "I've been placed on administrative leave. I don't blame them, really. Once I get close to this son-of-a-bitch, this... _Perses_ , as he calls himself, he slips away. This bombing at the Embassy marked the one year anniversary of his first bombing at Waterloo."

"So that's the name he's going by now. Perses, the Titan god of destruction." He brought the glass down to his lap as he studied the suspicion coursing through the other man. "When he was with the IRA, I knew him as Sebastian."

Liam stared over at him; his voice barely above a whisper as he said, "You know him."

"I _knew_ him. The man he was then and the man he is now are completely different in both ideology and agenda. The man I once knew would never have risked the deaths of innocent civilians, no matter the gains."

Liam was quiet a long moment, studying the file in front of him. It held all the information about this bomber reaking havoc over London. "Any idea what caused his drastic change in behavior?"

"Certainly. Eight years ago I killed his brother in a hotel bathroom in Brussels. Beat him to death with a shower caddy."

* * *

 _Eight Years Ago_

 _1997_

"Who's there?"

Red waited for the next line that followed the one Dembe had spoken and when it didn't come, took the cigar out of his mouth and said to Newton, "Did the Fool run off?"

"No, sorry," he said as he sat up on the sofa and refocused on the book. ""Marry, here's grace and a cod-piece; that's a wise man and a fool"." Newton looked up from the book and asked, "What does that mean, grace and a cod-piece?"

He laughed a little as he blew out the smoke from the cigar. "King Lear is symbolized by royal grace whereas the Fool by his cod-piece. It's slang for penis."

"So, he just called himself a dick?"

"Actually, since he was speaking ironically because he pointed out that the King was now the foolish one, he called King Lear one." As Dembe started laughing, he himself chuckled as he said, "I so love Shakespeare. Even in the worst of tragedies he had a sense of humor," right before he stuck the cigar back into his mouth.

Dembe pulled the book back over onto this lap, away from Newton, as he contined reading, "Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night love not such nights as these. The wrathful skies...frighten the very wanderers of the dark, and make them keep inside their caves. Since I was man, such sheets of fire, such, bursts of hor-rid...horrid?" He gave a nod and Dembe continued, "horrid thunder, such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never remember to have heard. Man's nature cannot bear the...af-flic...affliction, nor the fear." Looking up from the book, he told him, "your turn."

Red didn't need to take the book from Dembe's lap to recite King Lear's next lines. Having read this story many times, he could recite most of it by pure memory alone, especially Lear's verses. They were his favorite. "Let the great gods that keep this dreadful commotion over our heads find their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, that hast within thee undivulged crimes, unpunished by justice. Hide thee thou bloody hand; thou perjured, and thou pretender of virtue that are...incestuous. Wretch, to pieces shake, that under covert and convenient seeming hast practiced against man's life. Secret pent-up guilts split open your concealing coverings, and cry these dreadful summoners grace...I am a man more sinned against than sinning." Seeing both Dembe and Newton staring at him, he asked, "What?"

"That was really good," Newton said as Dembe just smiled in agreement.

Dismissing the compliment, he said to Dembe, "Your turn, Kent."

"Why're we reading Shakespeare anyway?" Newton asked. "He's only been at this for less than a year. There're easier stories to read."

"Because if you can read Shakespeare, you can read anything. Dembe, please continue. I think Newton's feeling a bit overwhelmed."

"I'm not a fan of Skakespeare. His stories are hard to understand," Newton protested.

"That's why I'm using the Oxford Edition that they use in universities. It translates better into modern English, and if you still can't understand what's going on then the problem isn't with Shakespeare."

Newton stared at him for a long moment before saying, "You think I'm an idiot."

"On the contrary, I think you're capable of so much intelligence, Newton, that if you start to actually think for yourself you'd be nearly unstoppable in what you could accomplish...but you don't. Instead, you've given your life over to the servitude of others and in doing so you bend to the will of others. Their thoughts become yours. It's the one thing that makes you the best right hand man I could ever hope for. As for the story, subtlety is hard to understand if you're not used to recognizing it. Not everyone is as blunt as I am." Turning back to Dembe, the told him, "You're doing splendidly, go ahead and continue."

The phone in the hotel room shrilled to life, breaking him from his concentration. He watched as Newton got up to answer it while he half-heartedly listened to Dembe's voice reading over the lines. Blowing out the smoke from the cigar, he heard Newton's normally soft tone grow louder as he spoke into the phone right before someone knocked at the door.

Newton turned to look at him as he looked toward the door just as it opened and in walked one of the hotel's bellboy and a man whom he'd recognized by the name Declan. Getting up off the sofa, he turned to Dembe and gestured for him to leave the room, which he did soundlessly.

Once he heard the door shut to the bedroom, Red turned and walked toward the two men who'd entered.

"I apologize, Mister, but-"

"You can stop your futile attempt at an acceptable excuse," he said to the bellboy as he stopped in front of him. "I hope that hefty sum of money he gave you, the one that's fluffing up your pillow, makes it easier to sleep. You can go now." As Newton saw the bellboy out, he called out, "Newton. I'm expecting room service to arrive shortly...in about, ten minutes."

Newton gave a nod before shutting the door behind him.

Red then turned to the other man in the room. "Declan, what are you doing in Brussels...and in my hotel room?"

Declan had been eyeing the closed bedroom door before turning his attention to him. He was a tall broad Irishman with brownish-blond hair that was graying. A pair of emerald green eyes stared hard at him as he tried to a friendly smile. They both knew there was nothing friendly about this visit. "Am I interrupting?"

At realizing what he was hinting at, he quickly answered, "It's not what you think. And, quite frankly, yes."

There was a sudden glint in his eyes as he said, "I never would've thought you had a taste for young boys."

He felt an ignition of anger spark deep within him at that implication. Stepping right up into Declan's personal space, making the man have to look down on him while he looked up, he told him, "You better come to a revered understanding of exactly who it is you're speaking to and watch what you say or so help me God, I'll make it so your own mother won't be able to identify you."

With a huff of air and soft chuckle, Declan stepped back as he held up his hands. From the humor in his eyes it seemed like the Irishman wasn't taking him seriously at all. "We had a deal."

"Yes, we did. I honored it and it's done." He turned away and walked over to the wet bar to pour himself a glass of Scotch, three fingers worth. He didn't bother to ask Declan if he wanted a drink. He wouldn't be staying long.

"The shipment was seized."

"When? After it cleared customs and was taken into possession by your men? You can't blame me for your own people's incompetence, Lance." At seeing the redding of Declan's face, he mockenly apologized, "Oh, I'm sorry...I forgot you don't like being called that. Does it bring up distressing childhood traumas? You know, I know a therapist in Chesapeake, Virginia that can do wonders-"

"I want what I was promised!" Declan interrupted.

Giving a shake of his head, he took a sip of the scotch. "I can't help you with that."

He heard the bedroom door open and saw Dembe quietly walk across the hall to the bathroom before shutting the door behind him. Moments later, the shower was running. He looked over at Declan and saw an amused smirk on his face as he eyed the bathroom door. Taking another sip of the drink, he walked over to the window and peered out over the Belgium city toward the Brussels–Charleroi Canal. Red could care less what Declan assumed and didn't, he knew who he was and what he was capable of. And if Declan continued to not take him seriously, well, he would just have to make him.

"Once word gets around that one of your shipments got confiscated, it'll be very bad for you, laddie. This business empire you're trying to build will cease to exist."

"Are you threatening me?"

"It doesn't have to be this way, Red. All I'm askin' for is a favor."

He laughed as he turned to address Declan face-to-face. "A favor would suggest that we're friends. Either way, friend or foe, favors are a slippery slope; one that I intend not to go down, especially if the hand I'm holding is yours. You know how favors can go. One day it's an innocent request to get a crate of illegally shipped weapons out of police evidence. The next, it's blackmail." He downed the rest of his drink just as the hotel room door opened and Newton peered in.

"Sir, room service."

Setting the empty glass on the window ledge, he excused himself as he went out into the hallway with Newton. Once the door was shut, and checked the hall to make sure it was empty, he turned to him and said, "Call Garrick, have him get his team ready."

"Right away, sir." Newton crossed the hall to the opposite door and opened it and slipped inside to make the call from that hotel room's phone.

He really didn't want to deal with Declan, but the Irishman had a point. This was bad for business and he couldn't risk those weapons being traced back to his associates and to himself. The moment he opened the door to an empty room, his stomach dropped.

The next thing he noticed was that it was silent. There was no running water from the shower. In seconds he was across the room and using his shoulder to plow open the bathroom door. The sight before him, a shivering and wet Dembe, towel clinched tightly in his hand, and Declan standing in front of him, he snapped.

Feeling that anger that had ignited earlier consume his whole body, his arms were around Declan's neck in an instant, choking the very life out of him. He knew there was only one way out of there for the Irishman, and that was in bodybag.

The bigger, taller man didn't give up so easily as he rammed him back into the wall. A breath of air escaped him and he was squished between the wall and the man's back, but he didn't let go. There was something digging into his gut from the man's back. The handle of a gun was protruding out of Declan's back. He couldn't let him get the gun and he couldn't loosen his grip to get the gun himself.

He heard more than saw Newton take Dembe out of the room and to safety as his grip around the man's neck got tighter. An elbow jabbed into his ribs as he threw his head back. He'd turned just in time so the impact cracked against his temple and splinter open a gash over his right eye. That blow would've broken his nose.

Planting his feet back against the wall, he pushed off, sending Declan stumbling forward as he fingernails scrapped over his forearm. The big man was running out of air quick but he still had fight left in him as he bucked his body forward, flipping him up and over onto his back against the tile floor. Declan took in a deep breath as he kept stumbling forward and into the opposite wall.

Blood was stinging his right eye as he rolled up off the floor and took in short labored breaths as he grabbed the nearest available thing he could reach, a shower cabby. He wasn't going to give Declan time to recover and go for the gun. As Declan's hand shot back for the gun, he'd already advanced, drew back, then swung; the first blow was jarring, did little damage. All the rest splattered blood. It was on the ceiling, the walls, over the sink and toliet seat, and then pooling on the floor.

Dropping the bloodied shower caddy to the floor, he turned away from the lifeless body of Lance 'Declan' McCain and left the bathroom.

Newton was approaching with a gun in his hand. A little too late. Looking him over, he said, "I'll call Mr. Kaplan."

"She's in New York," he said as he let out a deep sigh. "I'll call. Wipe the room and keep house-keeping out."

"Yes, sir."

He left the room and went across the hall to the other hotel room. Shutting the door upon entering, he saw Dembe, completely dressed, standing across the room with his eyes staring out the window. At hearing the door shut, he turned. His body had been tight and on alert and it barely sagged in relief at seeing him standing there. Red stood there as he watched as Dembe's sharp eyes took him in from head-to-toe before turning and crossing the room.

His breath caught a little as he watched as Dembe turn his back on him and leave the room. There was so much he wanted to say, to apologize for and promise. The truth was there was nothing he could say, no promises he could make, because the truth was that he wouldn't be able to protect Dembe every second of the day for the rest of his life. He could try and do what he could but in the end the only person who could protect Dembe, was Dembe.

Running a hand over his wet hair, wet from both sweat and blood, he let his head drop in disappointment as he tried to regain some sense of control. The adrenline he'd been experiencing was dying down, making him feel so much older, and tired, as he crossed the room to the window Dembe had been staring out of moments before.

Behind him he heard something being placed on a table then Dembe's voice reached his ears, "Raymond, you need to sit down."

When he turned from the window, he saw a hand towel, wash cloth, a bottle of water, bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a first aid kit open on the dining table. Looking it over, then resting his eyes on Dembe, he walked over and sat down in front of him. "Are you all right?"

"You're bleeding," Dembe told him as he got the wash cloth wet with water and started wiping the blood off his face. "I am not."

He wanted to laugh, so he did. "Yeah, you're right. I'm the one bleeding."

Dembe took his time as he cleaned him up and bandaged his cuts. Once he was done, he handed him a couple of ibuprofens and the rest of the bottle of water.

"I much prefer scotch to pills, but I appreciate the thought." He regarded the frown on Dembe's face before asking again, in all sincereity. "Are you really okay, Dembe? It's perfectly fine if you're not. If you're scared, or angry...If you hate me for any-"

The hug took him by surprise. First, he hadn't been expecting it. The second, Dembe hadn't welcomed any physical contact since the day he'd carried him to his car then to his plane to get him out of Nairobi.

Ending the embrace and taking a step back so he could look at him, Dembe asked, "Did you kill that man?"

With a moments hesitation, he opted instead for the truth, "Yes."

"Because he wanted to hurt me?"

"Yes."

Letting out a deep sigh, Dembe patted the back of his head then placed his forehead against his as he said, " _Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun._..To Allah we belong and to Him we return." He stepped back and regarded him for a moment before telling him, "There is a saying, "If you do something bad, follow it by doing something good"."

Giving a nod, he told him, "I think I can do that, Dembe."

Dembe smiled, one of great joy and forgiveness, before asking, "Now what?"

"We leave." But not before he used the phone to call Mr. Kaplan.

* * *

 _Back to 2005_

 _London, UK_

Liam regarded him closely; his suspicion was gone but that didn't mean his guard was down. "You want to help me catch him?"

Red took the cigar out of his mouth as he smiled. "Call it a good deed to rectify a bad one. Several years ago an associate of mine brokered a deal with Sebastian behind my back, one that I would never agree with. I took care of the associate after I found out, but it wasn't until a few months ago that I discovered that these acts of terror in London were the result of that deal."

With a soft laugh and shake of his head, Liam said, "Why the hell not. I've got nothing to lose, only everything to prove."

"There's the spirit." Putting the cigar out, he stood and took his jacket in hand. "I'll be in touch. Give my best to Eleanor."

"I always do. Need an umbrella?"

"Thanks, Liam, but no thanks. I've never trusted the things since I was shot by one in West Berlin," he said off-handly as he left the office and retrieved his fedora from the doorknob.

He left the dark house and went back out into the rain and headed toward the corner where Newton was waiting in the car.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks again for the reviews everyone! Also, for anyone trying to picture what my original character Liam looks like, in my head he's Hugh Laurie. I so want to see Hugh Laurie on The Blacklist alongside James Spader.

Setting up some background for my original character, and for Red, with this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Again, this is clearly for entertainment purposes. I don't know any more than any other watcher of this brilliant show. All this is just my creation of what could have been.

* * *

Ch.3

 _December 1985_

 _West Berlin, Germany_

 _"And then I said, "But it wasn't me, it was the dog!" Commander John Robinson finished the joke as he started bellowing with laughter. Looking directly at him, and seeing that he was the only one not laughing, he said, "Get it, Reddington?! It was the dog!"_

 _Shaking his head, he said, "Yeah, I got it. You're drunk, sir." He took the glass of bourbon out of his Commanding Officer's hand and handed it off to a waiter passing by. "That joke was so horrible, I feel deeply apologetic for the last five minutes it took you to tell it. Those poor minutes should not have endured the suffering."_

 _His Commanding Officer just huffed in amusement and shook his head. "Lieutenant J.G. Reddington...you're lucky I like you. I've bitten the heads off of higher ranking Officers than you for much less."_

 _"I bet you have, sir, and swallowed a few of them too I see," he said while gesturing to his protruding gut._

 _Everyone around them started laughing and he felt someone slap him on the back. It was Lieutenant Richard Abraham, his friend and colleague at the Pentagon, "Now that's funny."_

 _He watched as Robinson, who looked ready to exploded as his face turned red, move toward him to start yelling when he heard a voice behind him, catching his attention._

 _"Ray, be nice to your CO, you just may need him on your good side one day."_

 _Smiling, he turned and extended his hand, "Mr. Fitch."_

 _"Please, call me Alan, we're not at work." Alan Fitch shook his hand then gestured around as he said, "We're at a Christmas party."_

 _"We are?" he asked in mock confusion as he looked around the ballroom. The massive room was decked out in the Christmas holiday decorations as tinsel glistened from the chandelier lighting. There was even a decorated tree in the corner next to the stage where the band was playing. "We tend to forget that holidays exist in the Navy."_

 _"Is that because every day is one to you, Sailor?"_

 _He smiled at the sharp comeback as he told him, "Sailors are stationed on ships. I've never actually stepped foot on one." He took a drink of the wine that was in his hand as he looked Alan over. He was dressed accordingly in a tux and bowtie, but he didn't look joyous. He looked stressed, overworked, and not in the mood for joking._

 _Alan turned and motioned for him to follow. Stepping away from the rest of the group, he followed Alan Fitch, his civilian boss at the Pentagon, into a far corner. "Are you sure getting on your CO's bad side is a good idea, Ray?"_

 _"What are you talking about, he likes me," he said as he finished the wine and placed the empty glass on a table next to them. "Besides, he's so drunk he won't remember any of this in the morning."_

 _Alan regarded him for a moment before giving him a smile and soft laugh, "You don't think you're coming across as a little too arrogant?"_

 _"Confidence and arrogance are always oddly mistaken for one another. Believe me, if I didn't know John as well as I do, I would never joke with him like that. You should hear the ribbings he gives me on a daily basis."_

 _"That's one of the reasons why you're such a great Intelligence Officer. You understand people; you get to know who they are and how they think in order to use them to your advantage."_

 _Looking Alan over, he suddenly realized that this wasn't a social call. Stepping to the side of Alan so they could talk quietly, he asked, "What's this about, Alan?"_

 _"You know I called in a few favors to get you DIA duty straight out of the Academy. It wasn't solely due to your high scores and genius level intelliect. Having a brain doesn't neccessarily mean you'll be good in the Intelligence field."_

 _"I understand completely," he said as he looked back over his shoulder at his fellow shipmates and CO. They were all great people to work for and with, but he knew that something was missing. He was good at the work, but there was more he was capable of than gathering intel from information given to him in a small stuffy office in the Pentagon._

 _"I'm not the only one who saw your potential. They're grooming you to become Admiral one day. Do you know why?"_

 _"Because only Admirals can be Directors." He looked over at Alan and laughed while saying, "Who says I actually want to be in charge of Naval Intelligence?"_

 _"You don't?"_

 _He shrugged as he looked around the ballroom at all the high ranking Officers and their wives. Glancing toward the stage where the band was playing, he saw his wife chatting with the Chief of Naval Operations and the Secretary of Defense. "Oh, hell, I don't know. It's a lot to think about and I have a lot of time to consider my options. Another fifteen years or so."_

 _"Okay, let's talk short-term. How about getting out of that stuffy office and into the open air of field work?" His head jerked around at that as he stared at Alan. He went to speak when Alan cut him off, "Think about it. Talk it over with your wife if you need to. Come Monday if your answer is yes, don't go to the Pentagon."_

 _"Where should I go instead?"_

 _"Dulles, 5 am sharp. I'll have a plane waiting for you."_

 _"A plane? Alan, where-"_

 _"Oh," he interrupted as he gestured up-and-down over his dress uniform. "Wear civvies, don't even pack a uniform. Have a Merry Christmas, Ray."_

 _"Yeah, Merry Christmas, Alan," he muttered mostly to himself as Alan disappeared around the corner and out of the ballroom._

 _This...this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. Instead of being the one to receive the intel from the field operatives while behind a desk at the Pentagon, he would be the one obtaining the information. His mind was racing as a waiter appeared in front of him and offered a glass of wine or champange. He took the wine and downed it before putting the glass down on the table next to his other empty glass. He had to talk to his wife._

 _Turning around, he searched the crowd and spotted the woman he was searching for. He started walking toward the steps that led from the upper level he was on to the lower level his wife was on but it was becoming too congested. Gripping the handrail of the banister, he hoisted himself up and over._

 _He landed a step away from a table that seated an Admiral and other senior Officers. "Sir," he addressed the Admiral while straightening his dress uniform before crossing the ballroom in search of his wife._

 _He found her laughing at some story the Secretary of Defense was telling. To his ears the laugh was clearly fake. He'd heard the real thing and it sounded absolutely breathtaking. The sound she was making now was almost a sin to his ears. "Care to dance, Mrs. Reddington?" he asked as he extended a hand to her._

 _"Absolutely, Mr. Reddington," she said as as she took it and let him guide her to the dance floor. "Perfect timing," she said once they were far enough away, "I didn't think I could fake one more laugh without it being painfully obvious."_

 _"It was, least to me. The bad thing is you're going to have to get better at faking it, my dear. I have a feeling there're going to be a whole lot more of these brutally dull parties to come," he told her as he offered her his hand; she took with a smile as he pulled her close as the band changed songs._

 _"Oh, I have experience faking many kinds of sounds," she said playfully as she leaned into him. "The real question is, how're you going to survive all these parties?"_

 _Smiling at her, he said simply, "Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol."_

 _All he could feel was her in his arms; the heat of her body against his, the silk satin of her red gown over his palms, and the smell of her perfume was all he knew as they moved around the dance floor. Nat "King" Cole's voice singing "(I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons" filled his head as the instrumental rendtion played throughout the ballroom._

 _"My mother was right; she warned me about you Navy boys. If I'd had known ass-kissing top political and military leaders was going to be a marriage requirement, I would've listened to her and married Chistopher Parsons instead."_

 _"Hm, and here I thought your mother adored me. Now I know it's all been a sham. That's it, I'm returning her Christmas presents."_

 _"I'm not sure how she's going to cope when she doesn't receive her annual apron and oven mitts," she teased._

 _He laughed as he said, "I have never gotten your mother oven mitts. And the aprons are because she collects the damn things."_

 _She stared up at him and smiled as she said, "You do know that me and my father have been trying to do away with that collection for years?"_

 _"I knew it," he accused as he leaned in a little closer to her to whisper, "You're the reason why she asks me for a new one every Christmas." Looking up and around the ballroom, he waited for her reply. After a moment of waiting for a reply that didn't come, he said, "Aren't you supposed to be asking what I was going to do about it?"_

 _"Sure, if that was what this was all about. But it isn't." He looked at her and saw her tense smile as she studied his face. She always could read him. "What's really on your mind, Raymond?"_

 _He lead her around the floor a few times, taking the time to gather his thoughts, before letting her wrap both her arms around his neck as he rested his head on hers. "What are your thoughts of me being a field operative?"_

 _That took her by surprise as her eyes shot up and the tension in her smiled turned into a tighter frown. After a long moments consideration, she suddenly said, "Since when do you care about what I think? You've always done whatever you wanted regardless."_

 _Now that hurt. It stung as he sighed and closed his eyes. They weren't going to do this now. He was being sincerely honest. He really wanted her opinion. "This is different. This decision not only affects me, but us, you, and our daughter. I won't be home every night; there will be days, weeks, where I won't be home at all. There will be things I won't be able to talk about, secrets-"_

 _"How's that any different from now?"_

 _"I don't know, maybe because now I could be killed," he said with an unamused laugh. That got her attention real quick as they both stared at one another. "I could be arrested and sentenced to death for spying on the Soviets. So, I think that's a huge difference, my dear, a Grand Canyon sized one."_

 _She let out a breath and that strong anger faded just a quickly and he held her a little tighter in his arms. He's known his wife for a very long time and knew that she wasn't really angry with him, but scared for him. It was easier for her to push him away than it was to take him in close when she was scared._

 _"I'm sorry," he whispered as he hugged her._

 _"Will this make you happy?" she asked softly into his ear._

 _Yes, he thought, it would. "I want to do this."_

 _She pushed him back a little so she could take his face into her hands. "Okay," she said before kissing him. Once the kiss was broken, she said, "Promise me one thing, Ray."_

 _"Anything."_

 _"Don't let this change you."_

 _He smiled and laughed as he said, "Now there's a promise I can keep."_

 _"I'm serious."_

 _"So am I. This will not ever change who I am." He turned her in his arms, bringing her back against his chest as they continued to sway to the music. Leaning his head against hers, he whispered into her ear, "You know that you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen?"_

 _"Oh, really?"_

 _"No, but I don't mind lying if it gets me somewhere," he said right before he felt a jab into his right ribcage. "Ouch."_

 _"Groucho Marx?"_

 _He smiled. "Groucho Marx," he confirmed the source of that teasing statement as he let out a sigh and rested his head on her shoulder._

 _"You have an obsession."_

 _"More like a comedic ambition." He kissed her shoulder before he place one on her neck. "What'd you say we get out of here, Mrs. Reddington? We can borrow a Four Star's limo..." another kiss just below her left ear, "take a tour around the Capital...get a hotel room..."_

 _"Room service?"_

 _"Whatever you want."_

 _"I'll call my mother from the limo. Let her know we won't be back home tonight so not to wait up." She didn't turn in his arms as she took ahold of his hand and pulled him with her away from the dance floor and out of the ballroom._

The bitter whip of the winter wind stung his face and ears, snapping him out of his thoughts as he shivered under the long wool coat and fedora. The flight out of Dulles had been to Germany. West Berlin. And smack in the middle of a damn low front that was moving in to blanket the region with more snow. He'd been off the plane and on the airstrip waiting for nearly twenty minutes to get picked up, and he still didn't know what in the hell he was doing there besides freezing.

"Smoke?"

He peered over at the man who'd approached from behind offering him a cigarette. The man was slightly taller than he was with much bluer eyes and a British accent. A tweed flat cap sat atop a head full of wavy brown hair that curled up out under the edges of the cap. The brim was pulled down low to shadow his eyes. Above all else, he was in desperate need of a shave. Eyeing the offered smokes, he selected one as he told him, "Thank you."

The man pulled out a lighter and lit it for him while introducing himself, "I'm Liam Neville."

"Raymond Reddington," he said as they shook hands. Looking around the frozen and deserted airstrip, he asked, "Meeting someone?"

Liam nodded slightly as he said, "Several someones, as it were," before taking a long drag off his cigarette. "What about you? You don't look like you're here for the scenary."

"I don't know, it reminds me of a Caspar David Friedrich painting," he said as he waved his hand over the near horizon of West Berlin, toward East Berlin. "Bleak and dissolute...Definitely my kind-of scene."

That got a sly smile out of the Brit as he continued to puff away. He'd only had a few short hits off his cigarette. "I'd say it reminds me more of a Nikolai Galakhov."

Nikolai Galakhov was a well-known Russian landscape artist. He kept eyeing the man as he said, "I can dance with the best of them and even though I'm enjoying our little watlz, I'm tired, freezing, and jet-lagged. I'm going to need to see some identification."

Giving a shrug, Liam reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open and presented it to him.

"You're with British Intelligence. Now we're getting somewhere. Are you my ride?"

"No, you're mine. You and," Liam pointed out an approaching car, "Mister BMW." The inconspicuous black BMW stopped a few feet from them and the back driver's side door opened. "Mr. Alan Fitch, I presume."

Alan got out and started towards them. "You presume correct." When he spotted the cigarette he was smoking, Alan told him, "Those things will kill yea, Ray."

"You think?" he said as he put it back between his lips and took a longer pull. Turning to Liam, he told him, "My friends call me Ray."

Liam smiled as he said, "Wish mine were as polite. They all call me a son-of-a-bitch."

That was the moment he knew he would like Liam for the rest of his life. He laughed as he looked back at Alan, who had a permanent frown etched on his face. "Do you ever smile?"

"I'm not here to smile. Look, I know you're both wondering what's going on and why you're here," Alan said, getting down to business. "A joint operation isn't uncommon, but it's still not common enough to where it won't draw suspicion."

Liam leaned closer to him and barely whispered, "Is he always this straight-forward?"

"No, he can beat around a pretty wide bush when he feels like it." He stuck the cigarette back between his lips and smiled slightly as Alan scolded at the both of them.

"Just my luck; they've teamed up Abbott and Costello and I'm the one stuck babysitting. All right you two, into the car. We'll do the briefing in there," Alan said as he motioned for them to follow him to the car.

"Fantastic idea. For a moment I was convinced that you actually enjoyed making us stand out in the freezing cold," he told Alan as they started walking to the car.

"If I were certain it'd freeze that smart-ass mouth of yours shut, I would make you stand out here all day."

He laughed as he got into the back with Liam while Alan seated himself into the front passenger seat. Once situated in the backseat, he asked Alan, "Just answer me straight, what am I doing here?"

Alan regarded him a long moment before answering, "Consider it a final test and if you pass, you're on your way to bigger and better things."

He gave a nod in annoyed acceptance before turning to Liam to tell him, "By the way, I _adore_ Nikolai Galakhov's paintings, but, I prefer Ivan Shishkin."

Liam smiled at Alan as he said, "You were right. The Soviets are going to love this one."

"I'm still not sure if that is going to be very good, or very bad," Alan said to Liam but kept his eyes on him.

"You two know each other?" he asked as he looked from Alan to Liam.

"Welcome to the spy game, my friend," Liam said as he rolled down his window to let the smoke from his cigarette out. "You can start calling me a son-of-a-bitch now if you'd like."

Alan had turned away from them both to look straight ahead out the windshield. He did the same as he turned his attention to outside the car as he watched the passing scenary. When he saw a sign warning people in four different launages, he sat up straighter and took in a steady breath.

The sign had read: YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE AMERICAN SECTOR.

* * *

 _January 1991_

 _Six Years Later_

 _London, UK_

The fist collided with his face, sending him stumbling backwards and tripping over his feet. He fell against he wall next to the bookshelf and landed on his ass as Liam raged above him.

"Traitor! How could you do it, Ray?!"

Holding up his hand to warred off his friend a little longer, he tried to tell him, "Liam, let me-"

"What're you going to explain? How you betrayed your own country, your friends and family and everyone who trusted you! There's nothing you can say that would make me ever believe you again."

"You're being awfully presumtuous. Take a breath, Liam, and think."

Liam's hands were balling at his sides as he backed away and started to pace in front of him. "I should call it in and report you. You've got one minute, Ray. Start talking."

He took in a deep breath and said, "I did take highly classified information before I disappeared." Liam went for the phone as he said evenly, "Have you heard of an organization called The Cabal?"

Liam stilled with his hand hovering over the phone. He looked over at him as he straightened as his hand dropped. "They're a myth. Rumors been circulating in the intelligence organization for years about some Cabal controlling everything but it doesn't actually exist. It's a conspiracy-"

"No it's not," he said as he shook his head. "I can prove it."

"How?" Liam asked in disbelief as he moved further away from the phone toward him.

Swallowing hard, he told him, "The Fulcrum."

Liam took a sharp intake in as he muttered, "Shit."

They were staring at one another when the door to Liam's home office opened and his wife walked in. She was dressed in a nightgown that was pulled tight by the belt and a pair of house slippers. Her long reddish-brown hair hung loose over her shoulders. Red always considered her a beautiful woman and tonight was no different.

Eleanor gasped as she looked from her husband to Red on the floor. "Oh my, Raymond, you're bleeding."

He reached up to whip the blood from his nose and mouth away. Taking out a handkerchief, he held it to his nose as he told her, "Good evening, Eleanor, I'd love some Earl Grey."

Taking the hint, Liam steered his wife out of the room. "Ellie, love, start the water. We'll be out soon."

She gave them both one last look before leaving; the door shut behind her with a soft click. Liam leaned against the door and banged his forehead on it. Looking over at him, he said, "Did this Cabal set you up?"

He let out a breath as he turned away from his friend. "It's...a lot more complicated than that. I don't know."

"How can you not know?!"

His head was starting to hurt as his eyes clenched shut. "I would love to continue this conversation, but the shouting has got to stop."

Liam took a deep breath and started to pace the room again. Going over to his wet bar, he poured them both a drink. "Here." As he accepted the glass of cognac, he thanked him before downing it. Liam did the same, swallowing it all in a gulp. "What're you going to do?"

"I don't know that either. That's one of the reasons I'm here." He stared up at him as Liam stared right back down. "I'll do anything you want. I'll leave right now if you want me to. I would let you shoot me if it'd make you feel any better but you've already done that."

Liam smirked as he reached down to help him up. "You can stay for tea. Then you'll have to leave, Ray."

He hadn't known what he was expecting or hoping for when he arrived at Liam's house in London, but this was better than the alternative. Giving a tight nod, he held the door open for his friend and then followed him to the kitchen.

Moments later, they were seated at the table laughing with a pot of hot Earl grey between them as Eleanor stood at the stove fixing them up some dinner as Liam said, "That great New Year's Day Umbrella Shooting Incident you so love to refer to was a complete accident, Ray, and you know it."

"You shot me, Liam."

"It was a nick."

"I have a circular scar the size of an umbrella's ferrule in my leg."

"An umbrella's what?" Liam asked in amusement.

"The ferrule. It's the name of top piece of the umbrella... _Ferrule_."

Liam was quiet a moment then said, "Uri knocked it away the exact moment I was pressing the trigger. You literally walked right into the line of fire."

"It required twenty-six stitches. I had to walk with a cane for a week."

"You're not dead."

"I haven't used an umbrella since."

Liam started laughing as he said, "You really are sore about it after all these years. I'm flattered."

Smiling, Red considered the look on his friend's face and asked, "Truce?"

Liam was quiet as he stared over him with a mixture of fondness and suspicion in his eyes. In the end, fondness won out as he raised his cup of tea in mock salute. "Truce."

TBC...


End file.
